


Epoch

by Von_Helheim



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Doctor Strange (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Moral Ambiguity, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Stephen Strange & Christine Palmer Friendship, Stephen Strange & Wong Friendship, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29849502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Von_Helheim/pseuds/Von_Helheim
Summary: "Arrogance and fear still keep you from learning the simplest and most significant lesson of all." Her eyes bore themselves into Stephen's own, looking so far into him that he was sure he was laid bare beneath her under the slowly descending rain of the astral plane.Unable to stop himself, Stephen swallowed, staring back at the Ancient One and yet seeing not even half of what she saw in him. "Which is?"Her smile creeped into existence, looking serene and regal and mysterious, and not for the first time Stephen wondered how truly old she was to have such age etched into her features. Still, he listened, and her words reached within him, made from the inner reaches of the soul and twisting him into the makings of destiny."Its not about you."
Relationships: Ancient One & Stephen Strange, Christine Palmer & Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange & Wong, Tony Stark & Stephen Strange
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Epoch

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Marvel, Marvel Studios, Marvel Comics, or any Marvel franchises. Dialogue can be contributed to creative license and the Doctor Strange (2016) Movie. Titles are taken from the Doctor Strange (2016) Movie soundtrack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted 03.05.2021

The quiet, whispered tones of music — _Shining Star_ by Earth, Wind & Fire, 1975 — filled the operation room, causing the surgeons within it to bop their heads in the rhythm presented. The atmosphere, however unlike a traditional amphitheater it was, was light and airy, and drenched with overconfidence and sterilizing agents typical of Metro General Hospital. The surgery taking place within was a standard procedure, one that engulfed the attentions of multiple known surgeons. Simple to perform with steady hands and the foreknowledge one would obtain with residency and practice, and given to a man of middling age who was in no danger of losing his life. 

Just another Tuesday for Stephen Strange, really. 

“Challenge round, Billy!” 

The music shifted as a young nurse, just out of his residency and wearing a large smile, changed the playlist on an old iPod hooked up to a small speaker that one of the other practicing physicians had brought in a week ago and never reclaimed. Stephen supposed that it was hospital property now, chuckling to himself as the music shifted and the other doctors surrounding him laughed along with his easy going attitude. It always made his confidence soar, being able to make others laugh at his jokes. It probably helped that the confidence he had was not misplaced, something that was confirmed time and time again with each new and improved technique and each successful surgery. 

He supposed that his cocky attitude made people at ease around him in the operational theater. One of his greatest talents, he supposed. Overconfidence was infectious, especially with how perfect his record and reputation was. 

Christine would probably call him egotistical. Stephen almost wanted to deny it, but he knew himself well enough to admit he was mildly arrogant, with good reason. Humility was never one of his greatest talents. 

A wry laugh was wrung from his throat as he moved around his patent, taking a piece of equipment from his supporting doctor. “Oh, come on, Billy!” A small admonishment was directed to the nurse, “you’ve got to be messing with me.”

Billy, with all the charm of a man just out of schooling, knocked his head back and laughed. “No, Doctor!”

That type of confidence made Stephen smile under his surgical mask. The song was a good pick, even if the playlist was randomized. Randomization rarely mattered to Stephen, though. That was one of the perks of a photographic memory and a plethora of useless trivia facts. 

“ _Feels So Good_ , Chuck Mangione, 1977,” Stephen could practically feel the giddiness of the nurse from across the room, “Seriously, Billy, you said this one would be hard.” 

There was a triumphant laugh from the iPod across the operation room. “Ha! It’s 1978!” Stephen moved around his patient, catching the eye of his assisting doctor as he went, his smirk widening on his face. 

“No, Billy, while _Feels So Good_ may have charted in 1978, the album was released in December, 1977.” 

Stephen could practically feel the nurses narrowing eyes burrowing into the side of his head as he worked, small laughs coming from the other doctors in accompaniment. 

“No, no. Wikipedia says the-“

“Check again.” 

There was a sound of a rolling chair moving away, followed by the clicking of a keyboard, and a loud groan. Something inside Stephen brightened at the thought of being right. Then again, he was always right when it came to information such as this. Another fit of chuckles passed Stephen's lips at the sound of a disgruntled Billy murmuring “ _How did you..._ ” to himself. 

A huff came from his right as a tool was placed in his hand. “Where do you store all this useless information?” 

_Doctor Stephanie Harrison_ , his mind supplied on instinct. He had worked with Doctor Harrison before, and was comfortable with her skill and her attitude in the theater. He’d even admit he _liked_ to work with her. Which, unfortunately, was something he wasn’t often able to do anymore, what with the good doctor taking up management of their collection of med students. She was always a treat, what with her good humor about his strange habits and her flexibility that has saved a good number of men and women over the years. 

She was a good doctor, that Stephanie Harrison. Which was not praise he gave out lightly. 

“Useless? That man charted a top ten hit with a Flugelhorn,” Stephen paused, as if to collect himself before tossing out a call of attention to their stationed nurse. “Status, Billy?”

“1977”, followed by a despairing groan, was the answer. Stephen couldn’t help the glance he spared Doctor Harrison, raising an eyebrow in her direction while she puffed in amusement. 

“Oh, please! I hate you.” Stephen could hear the jest in her words. It lightened his attitude, while he began his stitch work on the patient. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the observing residents taking notes and smiling to themselves as they gazed in on their operation. Stephen barely remembered being in their position, having breezed through residency and his internships like a man starved. 

The interns looked young, from Stephen's passing glance. He mildly wondered if they were new, or if they were shadowing any senior residents. Memories of his own internships, coming forth with vivid clarity, were brought to the surface of his mind. Late nights in the hospitals on ER duty, signing papers for his superiors, getting taken out with his peers when he hadn’t been to his own apartment in days, years battling the looks of praise and jealousy as one of the youngest residents on tenure.

Meeting Christine for the first time, and the years of back and forth friendship and never-ending patience. 

Reaching forward to cut the last of the stitched, Stephen’s smirk softened into a smile that only he would ever truly be privy to, buried behind a surgical mask. His interning days may have been short in comparison to most, but they were not all work. He wondered if their new batch of residents would stick around long enough to find a place among the hospital, like so many doctors before them. 

Turning away from the patient, Stephen placed his tools on a stray tray, swaying to the music in the background. The good nature of the room had yet to dissipate, making Stephen seize an opportunity to have the last word with the ongoing conversation. “Woah, _Feels So Good_ , doesn’t it?” 

The terrible pun had its intended effect, prying more laughs from Stephen’s audience. Just as the jovial atmosphere began to settle, however, there was a loud tap that could be heard from across the room. Jerking his head up in mild surprise, knowing that no one would disturb an ongoing surgery like that unless it was an emergency, Stephen wasn’t as surprised as he should have been to see Christine waving at him with a distressed look on her face through the glass on their operation theater door. 

With a noise of mild irritation and surprise, Stephen looked to his surgery partner in silent permission, who gave a quick and concise nod. “I’ve got this, Stephen. You’ve done your bit”, Doctor Harrison gave a steady nod in Christine’s direction, “go ahead, we’ll close up.” 

Not waiting for anymore confirmation, Stephen rushed out of the room to Christine's direction, taking his mask and gloves off as he went. Christine wouldn’t have gotten his attention if it wasn’t an emergency, or if she wasn’t certain she needed his opinion. Wasting any time when someone’s life could be in danger was both negligent and lazy — two things Stephen absolutely hated. 

Pushing the theater door open, Stephen moved to the hallways with Christine on his tail, a fancy looking clipboard in her hand. “What is that?”

“GSW”, the clipboard is handed over to him with little other preamble, showing a graphic picture of a brain scan and the presented injury. Stephen hated gunshot wounds; they were always so messy. 

“It’s amazing you kept him alive”, Stephen would admit he was being a bit snide, especially as his eyes trailed after the wound and all its implications, “Apneic, further brain stem testing after reflex test… I think I found the problem, Dr. Palmer. You left a bullet in his head.” 

Christine's eyes narrowed at his sarcastic tone, knowing full well that he was being difficult on purpose. The emergency room was not his jurisdiction, and the procedure he was in the middle of demonstrating was interrupted for a second opinion. Stephen could honestly say he was annoyed, especially when his expertise could be used for something better than looking at scans and stating the obvious. 

Christine Palmer seemed to disagree. 

“Thanks. It’s impinging on the medulla. I needed a specialist to diagnose brain death.” There was a pause as something akin to uneasiness stress across Christine's face. “Something about that doesn’t feel right to me.” That got Stephens attention. If Christine Palmer was feeling uneasy about a decision, Stephen was almost certain that they had a misdiagnosis on their hands. 

A nod was given to Christine, Stephens' earlier cavalier attitude put to the back burner as he gestures for Christine to follow him. “We have to run.” 

Taking off down the hallway with Christine on his heels, Stephen bolted for the ER back rooms that he knew the patient would be in. Turning the corner and coming up to the open floor, Stephen slowed his decent as he looked around for bed number eighty-four, only to see Doctor Nicodemus West wheeling the patient away like the incompetent physician he was. Christine, looking perturbed, hurried up to the patients side and slammed her hands on the corner of the rolling hospital bed, stopping West in his tracks with a wild look in her eyes. 

“Doctor West! What are you doing?! Hey!” 

West has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Organ harvesting. He’s a donor.” Christine narrowed her eyes. 

“Slow down. I did not agree to that-“

“I didn’t _need_ you to. We already called brain death.” 

Coming up from the left, Stephen saw the situation begin to escalate as Christine hunched her shoulders and tensed, an obvious sign that she was getting ready to start a fight. It was a sign Stephen was _intimately_ familiar with. Raising a brow, Stephen spoke loudly enough to garner the attention of both West and Christine, hoping to focus attention on himself so they could move this entire process along. Time was running out. “Prematurely. We need to get him prepped for a suboccipital craniotomy.” 

The look of shock on West’s face was enough to send a sick thrill down Stephens spine. He enjoyed the look of annoyance and dislike in Nicodemus West’s posture, knowing that his own body reflected his distaste for the sham of a doctor. West was known to be an unrepentant, lazy surgeon who always aspired to be better than Stephen without actually understanding that everything Stephen had, he worked hard for. Sure, he was assisted by his good memory and his sharp mind, but he had put years into study and practice, taking late nights and skipping social events to get to where he is now in the medical world. He wasn’t humble, and he sure as hell wasn’t kind, but he was ethical, hardworking, and good at his job. Something he couldn’t say the same for Nicodemus West. The man had been riding the coattails of his betters since his birth. He had a marginal bit of talent, and with it, absolutely no drive and way too much ambition. To say Stephen was unsurprised by the doctors eagerness in harvesting a nearly dead man's organs, would be an understatement. 

West narrowed his eyes in Stephens' direction, “I’m not going to let you operate in a dead man, Strange.” 

Stephen, knowing arguing any sense into the man before him was futile, rolled his own eyes and shoved the clipboard into his face with more aggression than was necessary. “What do you see?” 

“A bullet?” The deadpan look he received for his effort made Stephen heckles rise. 

“A perfect bullet. It’s been hardened. You harden a bullet by alloying lead with antimony. A toxic metal. And it's leaking directly into the cerebral spinal fluid.”

Slow understanding began to dawn on West, giving Stephen another sense of grim satisfaction at his quiet murmur of “ _Rapid-onset central nervous system shutdown_ ”. Christine's own eyes widened from her place next to Stephen, placing a hand on his shoulder to garner Stephens attention with a much more prominent sense of urgency. “We need to go.” 

He sent a nod in her direction, before giving a rather pointed and sharp look to West. “The patient’s not dead, but he’s dying.” Stephen really couldn’t help his sneer. “Do you still want to harvest his organs?”

A confusing mix of anger and shame flashed across West’s face, turning it a mild shade of red that looked out of place on the pale man. It was clear that there was a rather futile attempt at gathering himself, before he spoke in a soft tone, “I will assist you.” 

Stephen didn’t bother to hide his disdain as he gave West the coldest look he could muster as he and Christine began wheeling the patient into an open operation theater. This man, after seeing his failure, is now trying to impose his subpar help into Stephen? Absolutely not. 

“ _No_. Doctor Palmer will assist me.”

* * *

“You know, you didn’t have to humiliate him in front of everyone.”

Stephen rolled his eyes at the comment Christine gave him, fully intent on ignoring her as he made his way to the wash station. They had just informed the patient’s — _Connor Murphy, age fifty-two, married and two children_ — family about his survival, to which they thanked the doctors and thanked God before collapsing into the comfort of each other. Looking at patients like that made Stephen smile, knowing he did good for the night, that he saved someone who mattered to somebody. It made Stephen feel good, like he was making a difference. Then the moment is gone and he is back in reality, where the family of Connor Murphy will be getting a bill of fifty thousand for an emergency surgery that saved his life and put his wife and him in debt. Idly, Stephen wondered if maybe he should have let West carve out a dying man’s organs. Maybe then, a family of four wouldn’t be in crippling debt. 

Some hopeful part of him thought maybe the Murphy’s had funds hidden away. The more realistic part of him noticed the worn, old clothing and the tired eyes of poverty in Mrs. Murphy and knew that she would be paying for her husband’s life for years to come. 

That fact brought up memories he sorely wished to forget. 

Beside him, Christine made a coughing sound which was purposefully fake and entirely made to get his attention. With a subtle roll of his eyes, Stephen looked her way before continuing on his path to the wash station, a little kick in his step as he pushed moral dilemmas and the past work day from his mind. 

“I didn’t have to save his patient either”, Stephen skipped down the hall, before twirling on his heels and giving Christine his most charming smile, “but, you know, sometimes I just can’t help myself.” 

Looking smug, all smiles and confidence, Stephen continued on his way ignoring Christine’s huff of mild irritation and endearing amusement beside him. “Nick is a great doctor, you know.” Stephen stopped himself from snorting, knowing he didn’t quite succeed when Christine’s reprimanding glance was cast his way. 

“You came to me.” 

“Yeah, well, I needed a second opinion.” There was a sense of defensiveness in the ER doctor’s voice, which told of Christine's nervousness and her irritation with the line of conversation. Stephen _also_ knew that tone all too well, having been on the receiving end of it one too many times. Some things just never change. 

Stephen looked at Christine with a raised eyebrow, daring her to continue with that line of thought. “You _had_ a second opinion.” They passed by the nurses station, coming up to the washing station near the break room off of the emergency section of the hospital. “What you needed was a _competent_ one.”

Christine looked like she wanted to both laugh and throw something at him, before she caved and let out a humorless huff. They both entered the wash station, taking off their apron covers and hair pieces before turning on the water to scrub away the filth of the night with disinfectant. Despite it being relatively early in the night, only nearing five in the evenings, Stephen was getting off work early for a work fundraiser. It paid to be the best neurosurgeon on the east side, it meant he could get away with a twelve hour shift instead of a thirty-six hour one, like he knew Christine was only halfway to finishing. 

Taking a moment to bask in the companionship and the silence, Stephen began drying his hands as Christine scrubbed her fingernails free of any grime that may have gotten on them when they cleaned their surgical tools after the procedure. He hated to admit it, but he missed moments like this. He had known Christine for years, but they never got to have these small moments with her, not any more. It made him nostalgic, wishing for the old days when she was his senior resident and they both were pulling week-long shifts and eating Chinese in the break rooms to hide from the janitorial staff. He missed her friendship, more than anything. 

Now... being with Christine, when they both were talking, reminding him of better days when an ex-relationship wasn’t there to put a strain on an otherwise easy friendship. 

Wiping his heads dry, he waited by the open doorway for Christine to finish up, checking his newly adorned watch for the time as he rolled his neck to stretch out sore muscles. With a wry smile, Christine moved to walk next to them as they returned in the direction of the emergency room, knowing that she had to get back to the floor before the director made his nightly rounds. The night was young yet, after all. 

“You know”, Christine began, filling the silence as they passed by another nursing station, “you could be my neurosurgeon on call. You could make a real difference.” 

Stephen should have been expecting the subject. It always came up when they worked together, these days. One of the reasons they no longer tolerated being in the same room as each other for more than an hour. 

With a barely restrained grunt, Stephen felt an old irritation swell inside him. “I can’t work in your butcher shop.” Next to him, Christine narrowed her eyes, a familiar fire flaring up in her posture. Stephen just barely resisted rolling his eyes at her offended behavior. It wasn’t even the worst thing he’s called the emergency floor. 

“Hey! Look-“

Cutting her off at her starting rant, Stephen began to speak a scripted sentence of his own. “Look, I’m fusing transected spinal cords. I'm stimulating neurogenesis in the central nervous system. The work I'm doing is gonna save thousands for years to come.” A look of condensation crossed his face, making him glance back at Christine after he paused for emphasis. “In the ER, you save one drunk idiot with a gun.” 

A flare of indignant rage crossed Christine's features, before she began to physically restrain herself from lashing out. Stephen had to admit, she always looked too good when she was upset. In the back of his mind, he wondered if that was why all their arguments had ended in sex, no matter how unhealthy it was for the both of them. Emotionally speaking, that is. 

“Right, sorry, my bad. You’re right!” The sarcasm she was putting in her tone could be identified by a child. “In the ER, you’re _only_ saving lives. No fame, no CNN interviews... you’d be suffocating,” there was a pause for emphasis, “well, guess I’ll just have to stick with Nick.”

The last sentence made Stephen pause, taking in what she just said. Behind the usual barbs exchanged, Stephen noticed the implication that he knew Christine added just to get to him. He never did play well with others. 

“Wait a minute”, Stephen couldn’t help the exaggerated expression he wore as his disdain for West bled through, coupled with a small lingering jealousy about the implication, “you’re not... you guys aren’t...” Christine's following deadpan almost made him break his theatrics. 

“What?” 

“ _Sleeping together_ .” Stephen said it like it was the most obvious conclusion. “Sorry, I thought that was implicit in my _disgust_.” 

Christine’s following grimace, only covered slightly by her amused expression, told him enough to know that wasn’t the case. Stephen couldn’t help the mild relief he felt, bubbling in the back of his chest. “ _Explicit_ , actually. And no, I have a very strict rule against dating colleagues.”

Now _that_ made Stephen snort. They rounded the corner together, coming up to the emergency floor entrance, just as Stephen collected his composure, a flirtatious and mocking expression filling his face with a coy smile. “Oh, really?”

She looked at him with the most accusing expression. “I call it the Strange policy.” 

There was an edge to her voice that Stephen recognized, knowing instinctively to not push her on this topic. Mildly, he wondered what she would do if he did. Maybe she would start a fight, right here outside the ER, and in the end they would find themselves in the back supply closet, just off the operational theater hallways, desperately ripping their clothes off before either of them could consciously realize how bad of an idea this truly was. Maybe she would just slap him again. Stephen didn’t know which he preferred. 

“Oh, good! I’m glad something is named after me”, he opted for humor instead, letting his easy arrogance do the heavy lifting for him, “You know, I invented a laminectomy procedure, and yet, somehow, no one seems to want to call it the Strange technique.”

“ _We_ invented that technique.” 

The emphasis caused them both to laugh, an companionable atmosphere returning to the hallways just outside Christine's post. It was always nice, when they weren’t fighting each other. When their views were clashing and Stephen wasn’t pushing just to see when Christine would crack. Still, Stephen’s charity event was in a few hours, and Christine had to get back to her long shift. Being reminded of the dinner tonight made Stephen feel an acute sense of loneliness and longing. He wondered if Christine would want to go, if she could. He wondered if she would say yes, if he asked. 

A conversation that would end in returned tensions and an awkward conclusion, he was sure. But Stephen never did have the best impulse control. 

“You know, I've got to say, I’m very flattered by your policy”. Taking a breath, Stephen felt his smile instinctively soften, “look, I’m talking tonight at a Neurological Society dinner. Come with me.” And just like that, the easy atmosphere was dampened by his not-question. 

He really was a glutton for punishment, wasn’t he? 

Christine’s smile turned a bit resentful, more along the lines of a grimace. “Another speaking engagement? How romantic.” 

“You used to love going to those things with me. We had fun together.” 

“No. _You_ had fun.” She gave him a pointed look. “They were never about us, they were always about you.” 

Not able to stop his interjection, Stephen put as much sincerity into his voice as possible. “Not _only_ about me.” 

“Stephen.” Christine stopped him before he could continue, looking his straight in the eyes with a sort of self-deprecating smile that he absolutely hated. “ _Everything_ is about you.”

The tense atmosphere was back, like he knew it would be. He could never stop while he was ahead, could he? He always had to push. And Christine always pushed back. It made him irritated, angry, miserable, and lonely. It made him wish for long weekends and take-out and memorizing medical jargon and avoiding janitors. It made him miss having Christine in his life as more than just a colleague. 

Stephen scoffed in his mind, growing more and more irritated with himself. That ship had long since sailed, no matter how desperate he was for the old days. Christine wouldn’t change herself for him, and Stephen wouldn’t change himself because he feared what would happen if he did. 

Coughing lightly to clear the air, he put on his most charming smile and spoke with a joking tone, “maybe we can hyphenate. Strange-Palmer technique.” Medical was a safe topic, a topic they were both passionate about and would always make her smile. 

And she did. Turning away to walk back to her station, leaving him at the doorway to the ER, Christine threw a grin over her shoulder at him. It was neither pitying or resentful, which was definitely an improvement, and with that grin she said her final words.

“Palmer-Strange.” 

He’d gotten her. Sure, he was left standing in the doorway, watching her walk away, but she left on a good note. She wasn’t angry, she wasn’t crying, she wasn’t upset. It was a success, by all accounts. Watching her walk away, Stephen wondered what he wouldn’t have done had she said yes to him. If she looked at him and said “I’d be happy to” when he asked her to accompany him. Would he have gone to the director and asked for her leave? Would he have helped her play hooky by pretending to be sick like they used to do back in residency, when they just needed alone time? What would he have done... if she said yes to him, giving him one more chance? 

Stephen realized pretty quickly that he probably wouldn’t have changed anything. It would be like all those other evening events they attended on his schedule instead of hers. She would take time out of her schedule, take unpaid leave to spend an evening with him out in the city. They would arrive, looking beautiful together, and throughout the evening he would get caught up in speaking and mingling with his fellow medical professionals and doctors and sponsors, and she would slowly start ordering fancier drinks. They would argue softly over dinner, and when the evening was over, they would argue in the car until one of them yelled at the other. Then, she would insist on being dropped off at her apartment, and he would do it, only for her to drag him into the entrance hall when he walked her to her door. They’d sleep together, have amazing sex, wake up in the morning early enough to still feel tired because they were both full-time doctors and ran on an early morning schedule, and after a pleasant breakfast they would head to work before repeating the entire process over and over and over. A toxic cycle which he knew in and out. A cycle he never could break, but a cycle Christine seemed to be extremely tired of. 

Stephen signed, before turning and making his way to the senior staff break room. He had dinner to get to, after all. 

Date or no date. 

* * *

Looking at himself in the mirror, Stephen checked the clock on his bedside before straightening his cufflinks. Nearly eight in the evening, and he was still in his apartment getting ready. He had an hour at most, before he would be labeled unfashionably late to an event where he was a keynote speaker. It took at least an hour and ten to get to the rich man's mansion outside the city where the dinner was taking place. 

An irritated sigh filled Stephen's chest as he fixed his parted hair. Usually, he was a punctual person. He hated others who weren’t on time, he hated having to wait for them, and he hated being viewed as someone irresponsible enough to be late himself. It was a blow to his otherwise perfect record that annoyed his sensibilities. 

An irritated grunt made its way past his lips as he adjusted his suit once again, finally nodding to himself as his reflection finally came together to look incredibly dashing. A black tie event, a freshly pressed and tailored suit, a clean shave, and a tasteful hair style. All that was missing now was a watch to match the set. Walking out of his bedroom and past a clear trophy case — holding certificates, medals, certifications, and more in neat, well organized places — Stephen came upon a drawer which holds his most prized collection. 

Twenty-four luxury watches, beautiful and simplistic and complex all in one. Each cost a small fortune, and each was rare and unique. Carefully, he picked up a particularly expensive one and expertly wrapped it around his wrist. Stephen smiled at the shined and cleaned surface, the engraving on the back glinting against his modern lamp light as he traced the carving. 

_Time will tell how much I love you_ — _Christine._

A gift, given to him for the one birthday they shared together as a couple. It made him ache, remembering how proud she looked when she had given it to him in a neatly wrapped box, the coy smile on her lips slightly covered by the wine glass she helped. The gift, the most recent watch added to his collection, meant more to him than he showed her, but he figured that Christine knew him well enough to know how much a watch like this meant to him. 

A nostalgic present, given when they were both revolving their worlds around each other. Before the split, before anything was difficult and talking to Christine was a rollercoaster of high-strung emotions and awkward moments. 

Reverently, his thumb passed over the engravings, before he pushed his hands to snap the watch into place. He didn’t have time for memories and regrets right now. Stephen was already late as it was. 

The 2006 Neurological Society Dinner was exclusive, infamous, and filled with the best and brightest in their fields. It served as both a fundraising charity event dedicated to donating funds to various hospitals around the country and a networking opportunity for experts around the globe to meet and confer. Rich and famous, talented and born into money, the Neurological Society catered to many great minds, and this year Stephen was a keynote speaker. 

And he was running late. 

Glancing at his now attached watch, Stephen let out a curse before he began his quick walk to his apartment's garage. He figured if the roads were clear enough, and with a few speeding laws broken, he’d get there just in time to call himself fashionably late. The fact he was late at all still irked him, but he would take what he could get, considering the circumstances. A last minute, free-hand surgery was as good an excuse as any. 

Exiting his apartment and quickly making his way to the elevator, he greeted the staff member working the loft and told him to hurry to the garage floor, his irritation seeping through into an arrogant attitude that made the staff working curl his lip in distaste out of the corner of Stephen’s eye. Waking out of the elevator promptly, with nary a thank you, Stephen unlocked his car and took off as quickly as he could. 

A shining, vintage 1963 stingray raced out of the parking garage and into New York traffic, dodging and weaving its way to the highway. So far, he was lucky and quickly made it out of downtown with little trouble, jumping onto the highway and racing his way north to the conventions meeting location. 

Quietly, Stephen put on the radio and relaxed, taking note of his speed and the lessening traffic around him. He could probably take the mountain road, get to the mansion quicker that way. The thought was appealing, especially when he noted the time on his watch out of the corner of his eye. Making a decision, Stephen recklessly crossed in front of the car to his right and exited off the highway and into the mountain roads, ignoring the blaring horns aimed at his lack of regard for his fellow drivers. The mountain roads wound offer less cars, which meant he could go as fast as he needed to make it to his dinner _on time_. That was what was most important to him right now. 

The farther down the mountain side roads he went, the fewer cars there were. Weaving along the winding roads — well over the speed limit — Stephen relaxed as he passed another sparse car with ease, taking note of how long he had until the dinner truly began. Thirty-four minutes, and he was still five minutes off from making it according to his ETA. Pressing his foot down on the pedal, Stephan increased his speed with little care, seeing the open road in front of him. 

The late winter season had the sun going down already, making the roads dark and his headlights shine against the asphalt. He’d make it in time. He always did. 

Suddenly, his phone rang interrupting his reprieve. Glancing down at the caller ID, Stephen cursed lightly before moving a finger to click the call button. 

“Billy! What do you got for me?”

He had completely forgotten he was due for a scheduling appointment with his assisting nurse. In the chaos of the last minute surgery, racing traffic to get home, getting ready for his speech, racing into traffic _again_ to get to said speech on time, it had slipped Stephens mind that he had made arrangements to make his schedule while he was on his way to the neurological society function. Thank god Billy called him, because Stephen was not about to call Billy. 

There was a light laughter on the other end of the speaker, before it was seemingly smothered forcibly. “I’ve got a thirty-five year-old Air Force colonel. Crushed his lower spine in some kind of experimental armor. Mid-thoracic vertebral fracture.” 

Stephen hummed, taking note of the information Billy gave him. An injury like that was a dime-a-dozen, happening every few years. The Air Force and the Navy, having those pilot fliers that were more susceptible to crashes from twelve thousand feet in the air, more so than others. He could definitely help the American soldier, but so could a doctor as incompetent as Nicodemus West. He’d get nothing but boredom out of the operation. 

“Well, I could help, but so can fifty other people.” Stephen couldn’t help the snide after comment that found its way to his lips. “Find me something worth my time.”

There was a rustling of papers to be heard over the phone, before a brief “ _aha!_ ” could be heard. “I have a sixty-eight year-old female with an advanced brain stem glioma.” Even Stephen grimaced at that description. 

“Yeah, do you want me to screw up my perfect record? Definitely not.” Stephen had a reputation to keep, after all. A procedure like that was practically asking for career anxiety. 

Another sound of rustling papers, and another sound of triumph. With a hopeful lift in his voice, Billy relayed, “How about a twenty-two year-old female with an electronic implant in her brain to control schizophrenia struck by lightning?”

Taking a pause, Stephen digested that sentence before a sound of intrigue passed his lips. “Now, that does sound interesting. Could you email me a-“, a ping was heard as Stephen’s blackberry raised a notification, “got it-“ 

It happened so fast, Stephen isn’t really sure what triggered it. 

In his haste to take a brief look at the file sent by his assisting nurse, Stephen took a hand off the wheel, and glanced down at his phone. To his left, a car was coming up the side of him, riding all too close to the center line, and speeding just as fast as he was. There was a brief moment — _a single, painstaking moment_ — where the wheel swerved to compensate Stephen’s concentration. A small, minuscule moment where he didn’t catch the wheel in time, and the car’s headlights were suddenly coming up all too fast. A short second where Stephen’s eyes widened, his breath quickened, his heart pounded against his rib cage, and his head screamed at him to react. A tiny moment where he couldn’t react at all, the sound of Billy’s frantic voice asking what was wrong, the blinding light of the car that was coming straight for him, and _suddenly everything was in slow motion as Stephen felt the impact before he could process, felt his car get nicked in the front left corner, felt his seat buck against the seat belt, felt everything spin out of control, and he was going over and down and he was out of control, oh god- he was spinning and tumbling and what was he going to do- he gripped as hard as he could, his seatbelt choking his neck, his ribs, his shoulder, his wheel- what was going on, he couldn’t stop, the pain, oh god, the pain- it hurt it hurt it hurt-_

_His hands-_

Everything went black. 

* * *

( _ Beep... beep... beep... _ )

The sound was achingly familiar to Stephen. Even in his current darkness, he could recognize that sound of a heart monitor. It was a sound that he had heard when he was just a boy, looking at his grandfather as he withered away in the small hospital in Nebraska. It was a sound he had heard when he was already a young man, holding his mothers hand as she passed, making him promise to look after his brother. It was a sound he heard daily in the hospital, in the background noise of surgeries and patients. 

It was a comforting sound, in a way. Yet, today it brought him no comfort to hear the familiar beeping of a heart monitor. 

( _ Beep... beep... _ )

Blearily, Stephen began to gain more awareness of what was around him. The cool air of an air conditioned room, the smell of antiseptic. The sound of moving traffic, car horns honking outside. The beeping of a heart monitor and the rustling of a sheet. In the distance, the sound of a rolling cart and the chattering of people filled his awareness. The smell of freshly laundered linen, the distinct scent of a hospital room. The feel of itchy sheets beneath his body, the heaviness of his eyelids, the ache in his limbs, the needle in his arm-

The aching, consistent pain in his hands...

( _ Beep... _ )

Stephen tried to force his eyelids open, achieving only a small flutter before his strength failed him. Trying again, noting how the sound from the heart monitor increased mildly as Stephen tried to force his body to move to his will. Everything was incredibly heavy, dulled by what he assumed was some sort of pain killer — he recognized the effects. He opened his eyes, he needed to see, needed to assess what happened. He needed to remember what happened, and why he was in the hospital, and why his limbs felt like cement. Stephen needed to know why he was in the hospital when he should be speaking in front of his peers and medical equals. 

_ Why did everything ache so much?  _

( _ Be- _ )

By sheer force of will, his eyes slowly opened to see the white walls of a familiar design. He had walked by these white walls time and time again during his tenure as a surgeon, he knew that eggshell off-white by heart. All the rooms between levels two and four had an off-white paint color that always seemed to unsettle him, and he knew that his room was the same. The ceilings was just as bright as the walls, and awareness tickled his senses while he tries to command his mind to move when it  _ just wouldn’t move- _

A pained gasp escaped Stephen, causing his eyes to widen without truly seeing around him. He had shifted, had finally forced his body to move, but the result was a sharp pain that vibrated through his spine and out to his limbs. Very rarely had he ever been put on morphine, but now, as he laid in the hospital bed and felt his limbs ride out the prickling sensations of needles in his skin, he could identify just how much morphine he was truly on. 

He figured it was a lot of the drug, if this disorientation was any clue. 

To his side, the heart monitor that he had first identified when he had eased himself out of consciousness began to rapidly pick up the page, and suddenly it was going too fast. There was a shout from his right that he couldn’t properly identify, and the vision he had just barely begun to recover began to fill with black dots. Stephen didn’t know if it was the pain or the concussion he was sure he had that caused his vision to swim, but there was little he could do other than try and ride out the wave of distortion that crossed over him. Feeling his breath quicken in his chest, Stephen tried to relax and think about anything else as he squeezed his eyes shut trying to will away the flashes of agony that broke through his drug haze. 

In the back of his mind, Stephen was aware enough to mark the needle in his arm off as giving him fluids and a constant dose of pain relief. In the back of his mind, he snidely remembered why he hated morphine so much. This loss of control was infuriating to him, and coupled with the confusion, Stephen was not having a good time. 

Suddenly, there was a soft voice to his right followed by the sounds of following footsteps. A woman’s voice, so familiar, and on instinct Stephen’s heart rate calmed to a slower beat. Laying there, with his eyes bolted shut, Stephen listened to the soft alto of the woman’s voice and tried to place it in his jumbled thoughts, to no avail. Stephen wasn’t sure how long this went on, the woman speaking soft nothings into his ear and the feel of her hands stroking his shoulder and his head in a motion that felt frighteningly good. 

Stephen was so tired, now. The effort he put into trying to figure out where he was and why he was here was now dissipated. All that was left in its place was a bone aching sleepiness and the feeling of heavy limbs against linen. He was so exhausted, and he didn’t even know why... 

He could... just rest. Only for a moment...

Just... for a moment...

( _ Beep... beep... beep... beep... _ ) 

This time, consciousness came to him with little struggle. There was no effort put into the fluttering of his eyes, and there was no immediate confusion when he saw the eggshell ceiling of a standard hospital room. There was no startled panic when the dull aching of his limbs was registered, and the feel of the needle in his arm didn’t cause him distress. 

There was only a slow understanding as his eyes flickered across the room he was in, before his vision caught sight of his own body. 

The heart monitor began to sound off faster. 

“Hey, shush, it’s alright... it’s alright, Stephen.” A woman’s voice, the same voice which lulled him into a secure rest just hours before, echoed to his right. Christine, his mind recognized her and felt an instinctive relief despite the horror he was seeing. “It’s okay... it’s gonna be okay.” 

The woman’s hand —  _ soft and warm... it’s Christine... that’s her hand _ — laid gently against his shoulder. His eyes were moving around wildly, trying to process the scene in front of him. 

What did they do... what did they do to his  _ hands _ . 

It was a horrific, terrible sight — even if he wasn’t the one living it. Wires lacked tightly around his forearms, covered thickly with near white bandages and braces that did little to hide what was beneath it. On either side, thick metal poles attached for the sole purpose of keeping his pained limbs in line. His arms, in absolute tatters, leading up to suspensions which held everything in place. His hands... oh god, his  _ hands _ . 

“What did they do..?”

His own voice was unrecognizable to him. Hoarse, scratchy, barely loud enough to be heard a few feet away let alone from across the room. There was a gravel-like quality to it that one could only get from exhaustion and misuse, or from drastic injury. Even saying those four words caused him a small torment, both physically and emotionally. 

_ Oh god, what did they do to his hands... _

He could hear Christine swallow from next to him, his eyes glued obsessively and irrevocably to the suspenders holding up his limbs. “They rushed you in a chopper.” She sounded emotional, like she was barely holding it together herself. Stephen wished he could care more about her, right now. But his focus was entirely on himself. “But it took a little while to find you. Golden hours for nerve damage went by while you were in the car.”

Stephen tried to process what was being said. That’s right... he was in his car, he was on his way to the society’s charity dinner... he had taken the mountain roads, knowing he would be late if he didn’t hurry. Billy had called, when he was only just thirty minutes out. A woman who had been struck by lightning had sounded like an interesting case, and Billy had sent over an email. He was speeding, because he needed to get to the mansion... Why did he need to get to the dinner again..? Right, he was speaking to a board of medical professionals and colleagues... 

There was a car, he remembered. It was coming up to him on his left, it’s headlights were blinding. He had reached for his phone, and the car had swerved just enough... he had lost control, hadn’t he? The car had hit the corner of his own vehicle, and he had spun. He had spun so... so fast. Stephen remembered how panicked he was, gripping his wheel, trying to steady his already tumbling car...

There was so much  _ agony... _

“ _ What did they do? _ ”

His voice was a little more forceful this time, yet it was still distraught. Filled with grasping pain, his jaw tightening and flexing as he tried to swallow only to find his mouth dry. The longer he was awake, the more discomfort he registered. A bruise on his face, around his eye. A split lip that he could feel needed to be stitched together. Butterfly stitched holding shallow cuts closed on his forehead. A bruise that burned whenever he moved his face. 

Christine’s hand against his shoulder tightened its grip, just a bit. It was enough for him to tense, just slightly, as the pressure registered. Still, his eyes avoided looking at her. Stephen couldn’t take his sight off of what was in front of him. 

_ His hands...  _

There was a dry sob in Christine's throat when she next spoke. “Eleven stainless steel pins in the bones.” Stephen could hear ringing in his ears which muffled Christine's own shaky breath. “Multiple torn ligaments. Severe nerve damage in both hands.”

There was a pause, as the information was processed. Stephen could hear her emotions in her voice, could feel Christine trying to put herself together again, if not for herself than for him. And yet, Stephen still couldn’t turn her way. “You were on the table for eleven hours.”

_ Oh god, they’ve ruined him... _

The fixtures in his limbs were barely clean, inserted directly into his wrists, his ligaments, his knuckles, his joints, his fingers. Stitching surrounded the steel pipes, tied with the standardized clear threads that was common of Metro-General Hospital. His fingers, his palm, everything was swollen and bulging. Gone were his elegant, long fingers which would hold a scalpel steady for hours. Gone were his beautifully manicured hands that were his pride and joy. Gone was the range of motion, the skill, the muscle memory, everything he had worked for over  _ decades.  _

_ It was all gone.  _

His hands... his  _ career _ ... everything of value in his life was gone. 

What was he... without his job. 

What was he... without his hands. 

_ He was nothing. _

“Look at these fixtures...” he could barely manage a whisper, emotion filling him to near tears. Everything he had earned in his life, everything he had put worth on, it was all gone. He was  _ ruined.  _

Christine tried to put a hand on his arm in reassurance. And still, Stephen couldn’t look her way. He was transfixed. His hands... 

There were tears in her voice, straining her breathing and causing her hands to shake. “No one could have done  _ better. _ ” 

At that, Stephen finally turned his gaze away from his massacred hands. He looked at Christine, with her messy bun and red eyes, with her stained scrubs and her shaking shoulders that spoke of deep sorrow and giving emotion. And he felt his vision blur with unshed tears. A lump formed in his throat, blocking his breathing enough to hitch his breath. Stephen looked defeated in this moment, filled with boiling over emotion and realized dread. 

Stephen Strange looked like a man broken. 

_ “I could have done better.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire work is an idea I cam up with while revisiting the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and when I noticed how underappreciated Doctor Strange is in this fandom. There are very few Stephen Strange centric fictions out there, and that is a catastrophe. This entire story revolves around the question: what if the events of Doctor Strange took place a decade earlier? And what if the Mystic Order had more elements of the comic books within it? 
> 
> This means that the entire first part of the story is a rewrite of the Doctor Strange (2016) Movie. So, if you are here for the Tony Stark and the avengers, we won't even be seeing them until the movie rewrite is complete. You'll be waiting for a long, long time if you are here for any kind of relationship between the rest of the mcu characters. Stephen needs his own love. Updates will be sporadic and happen irregularly. Fingers crossed this story sticks with my interest. 
> 
> Feel free to comment any questions, concerns, or queries!


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